


Siren and The Festival

by Macabre16



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Death, Family, Festivals, Gen, Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macabre16/pseuds/Macabre16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the 1600's, a small village holds a Festival for the migrating birds every year, unanimously choosing one young, long-haired maiden to cut her hair for<br/>the birds to use for their nests. One girl gets more than she wants, starting sad but soon melts into happiness...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siren and The Festival

A long time ago, hidden in the Swedish hills, there was a little village. Unlike most of the villages, which were filled with 'witch-hunters', this one was sweet, and serene. On most days it was quiet, peaceful, like the undisturbed water of a silent forest's lake.  
Now, every year the village celebrated the Beginning of Spring, on the one day all the birds around Sweden migrated to the sereneness to build their nests and lay their eggs. The villagers took the day very seriously, and always made it better than the last,  
year after year.

Living in the village was a young girl of the age of 12, living on a small farm with her mama and papa. She was widely known around the village, due to the fact she came to the market to deliver fresh bread, eggs, and goat's milk. She was also one of the few  
oldest village children, giving her the responsibility for watching the younger ones while their parents worked. Her name was Siren, named for her beautiful back-long locks of hair, a deep, rich red oakwood color. A favorite activity of hers was to plait her  
hair into two braids with white ribbons, making them look like the oak tree trunks on the day of the festival.

Now, the festival held the traditions of leaving fresh seed cakes, made of goat's butter and sunflower seeds, and fresh river water for the birds, dancing under the stars, and contests for the sweetest sugar-bread and goat milk. But the most important of  
all was the tradition of choosing one girl in the village to cut off her hair and gift it to the birds, to aid in their nest-making. The villagers all agreed that the one for this year was to be Siren.

On the day of the festival, Siren sat in her front yard, dressed in her traditional folk dress, on the small white bench her father had built for her. She admired the decorated village as she ran her fingers through her hair, trimming it with daisies. She smiled at  
passerby, at the ribbon-wrapped trees, at the singing birds clustering the oak branches, creating bunches of colors only birds could have.

"Siren?" Her mother came walking from the house, a small pair of scissors in her hand. Siren always loved her mother, who was always there when she was needed most. She had soft, short hair, light brown that rippled at the ends like waves. Her folk dress,  
a matching shade of brown, was beautiful than ever. At the middle of the bodice, there was a small red rose made of colored wax. She had made it when she was Siren's age, and she promised to give it to her when she became a young lady.  
"Hello, Mama..." Siren's eyes went to the scissors. "Mama? Why do you have your sewing scissors out of their box?"  
Mama sighed and looked out to the bird-filled trees. "I'm afraid...the villagers have picked you to give your hair to the birds this year."  
Siren wrapped her little hand around her long locks, not wanting to oblige. "I don't want to."  
Mama gave her daughter a small smile. "I'm afraid you must. Besides, think about how happy the birds will be." She held Siren's hand. " Listen, if I were one of those birds, I'd turn selfish and steal all of your hair for my own nest."  
Siren reluctantly agreed at last, and looked down to the green, grassy ground as her Mama cut away the locks.

Within a few minutes, Siren sat, her hair only reaching to her shoulders. No flowers were woven in. She solemnly ran her fingertips through what was left.

For the rest of the day, it was a wonderful festival. Siren had made a flower crown to make up for the ones lost after the cutting.

Then, tragicness; a gang of witch-hunters barged in, grabbing the women of the village to hurt them. There was soon red mixed with the green grass. As Siren was pulled into her house to safety by her father, there was no more time. She saw her  
Mama fall to the ground when hurt by a hunter.

The next few days were sullen; all wore black and mourned for the killed villagers. No birds sang.  
Siren sat on the bench in her yard, silent and looking at her clasped hands in her lap. Mama was not there to tell her that everything was going to be okay.  
A sweet chirpy singing filled the gloomy air, making Siren look up.  
There, in the nearest tree, sat a nightingale, with soft brown feathers. In its freshly made nest. Siren looked closer. The nightingale had a tiny spot of red right in the middle of its crest. Its nest was made of...

Hair, Rich, deep, oakwood red hair.

Siren smiled at the bird, tears in her eyes. "Mama..." she whispered.

The nightingale sang with sweetness.


End file.
